


Sail Across the Sea

by brianmight



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band), Titanic (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1910s, Forbidden Love, M/M, Maylor - Freeform, Period-Typical Homophobia, RMS Titanic, but mostly just a lot of pain, mostly cry, there will be sexy times, yeah this will make you laugh and cry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 13:04:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16765714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brianmight/pseuds/brianmight
Summary: 10 april, 1912. Southampton.The ship of dreams is about to commence on its long-awaited journey — the voyage of a lifetime, if the papers are not mistaken. The grandiose sight of the vessel in the harbour is plenty to instil awe in all who parade around the harbour, either as future passengers or people who are about to bid their loved ones farewell. Two separate worlds mingle upon the crowded docks — the one of automobiles and the one of wooden carts; the one of many suitcases and the one of few; the one of riches and the one of rags. One belongs to an affluent heir, the other to a wandering street musician. Their backgrounds couldn’t clash more, but that won’t refrain fate from unifying them on the unsinkable RMS Titanic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! This is my first Queen-related fanfic and simultaneously my first Titanic-related fanfic. I'm trying to portray everything as historically accurate as possible, but my main source will be the movie Titanic (1997) so I can't account for any factual mistakes made in that movie. Anyway, enough of my babbling. I hope you will enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it! I'm not very active on here yet but you can always find me on my tumblr: http://brianmight.tumblr.com/  
> Just a little disclaimer: this story is based on existing people but is otherwise a complete work of fiction.

\- where to, mr?  
\- to the stars.

—

A deafening honk drilled through the harbour and caused the thin glass of the automobile window to shiver in apprehension. The vehicle radiated a sense of security, for it was an embodiment of everything its inhabitant was abandoning. Long locks of gold were tied together in a ponytail, making it appear as though he had at least tried to turn his hairstyle less taboo, but a few rebellious strands had escaped confinement and now framed his soft facial features. Most notable were his azure irises that reeked of indifference as they stared through the window at the outside world, which continued in a hurry while the realm inside the safe car stood completely still. He didn’t move. Barely breathed even, as if not to disturb the rare moment of peace. To open the door was to yield to everything that had been laid out before him. To land his feet on the pavement was to accept the cramped family legacy. He was not ready for it. Never had been, and, frankly, never wanted to be. Growing up affluent certainly had its perks, but one it lacked was complete freedom. His mother used to tolerate her son's rebellious behaviour, but with her had died the young man's independence. The inheritance had been a stab to his father's heart, which resulted in gambling debts, reducing the family to nothing but a title and a facade of wealth. America was supposed to bring new prospects. America, and _his_ cursed engagement. All for the money, all for the sake of maintaining status. Frustration boiled in clenched fists, the man damning himself for having been born first in a row of siblings. 

That was when the chauffeur interrupted his train of thought by clicking the door open, allowing the noises and voices to flood the content of the automobile. An impatient yet dulled hiss pierced his ears. “ _Roger Meddows Taylor!_ Be a gentleman and exit the vehicle to aid your fiancée, will you?” It was the patriarch of the Taylor family that had spoken — with the thin bridge of his nose slightly scrunched, the usual air of pride was strengthened around the man. Appearance masked the personality below. Roger let out a scoff, the hint of a sarcastic smile gracing the end of his lips as an even more wry reply was shot in his parent's direction. “Why, of course, father! Do you want me to carry her luggage as well? And be her lap dog?” For any other girl he would gladly have done so, but Margaret Astor wasn't just any other girl. Arrogant, disdainful, and boring to the very core: far from the wife the heir had in mind if he'd ever had a wife in mind in the first place. The glare Roger received could have murdered him right there had it been a bullet. A disappointed shake of his father’s head followed, his thick brows an arching threat above equally warning eyes. Roger obeyed reluctantly by planting his Oxfords on the cobblestones.

It was not until he actually slammed the car door close that the commotion in the harbour became more than dulled background noise: faces sharpened, expressions of excitement and awe turned vivid. The mass of people and dock workers, hoisting crates and automobiles up with thick ropes, had all gathered for the ship of dreams. With one eyebrow raised, Roger stared up and down, studying the gigantic vessel that rested in the ocean water. The morning sun turned its four funnels into impressive silhouettes; a halo as if to bless the very first voyage. _As if it needs a blessing_ , he thought with squinted eyes. A ship labelled ‘unsinkable’ would only require a proper crew in order to safely reach its destination.

There was only one entrance for third class passengers. One small door through which many hoped to find a brand new life in the States. Unlimited opportunities were promised, but before those would be in reach one had to wait in a line that only seemed to get longer as time progressed. Among the ragged families stood a young fellow. The combination of his tall posture and messy dark curls would be enough to mark him as striking amidst the future passengers, but appearance didn't distinguish them from each other: in the eyes of the crew checking their boarding passes, they were simply the lowest of society's three layers that would be present on the Titanic.

Half an hour passed before he could finally see the actual gangway that bridged the shore to the immense vessel. The door was but a dot on the ship's side, a needle puncture in a whale. To claim that the sight was impressive would be a grave understatement: it instilled awe in all who beheld it and even caused a slight hint of anxiety to creep up on them. The largest passenger ship in history… and it would swallow them all.

Brushing the untamable curls out of his face and simultaneously revealing sharp cheekbones, the lonely traveller impatiently tapped the strap of his weather-beaten duffle bag that he carried on one shoulder. The other shoulder was slightly lifted, indicating that the load on that side was considered of more value than any of the possessions in the bag. Indeed, his hand held onto an old guitar case as if the acoustic instrument of oak was a lifebuoy. In a way, it was. The man's life truly depended on the meagre income his guitar provided. Patches on the wooden frock coat worn above a plain, loose dress shirt were physical proof of hardships he had to endure, from spending nights on the streets to being chased by constables. Not that he'd done anything to provoke such horrid circumstances, oh no— it was nothing but the sheer misfortune of having been born in poverty. Something that ought not to matter on the continent he was about to travel towards. The guitarist had never moved overseas before and wondered whether the heaving waves would be preferable to the rusty train track. The landscape would certainly be different; neverending ocean water instead of flashing forests and hills. A vessel surrounded by nothing but a cage of water, a bottomless Tartarus that housed all sorts of mysteries. Terrifying, yet so very intriguing.

He was pulled back to reality when two children of the young family in front of him became completely absorbed by the distressed leather guitar case. Wide eyes accompanied by open mouths gawked up at the giant, who flashed an amiable smile at the boys. “D’you want to see what's in there?” he asked, lowering himself to a squatting position, and the moment he did so the children rushed away to hide shyly behind their father's leg. The amusement on the musician's face only brightened up and he rose from the ground again, playfully running his hand through the children's hair, who replied with a giggle.

The queue moved forward. Step by step, it grew shorter, until it was finally his turn to hand his papers and boarding pass to the crew member. After what felt like minutes of studying both pieces of paper, the uniformed man let out the command he had been repeating for a million times the past few hours.

"Mr. May, please pass through health inspection.”  
"I assure you that won't be necessary—"  
"It's a mandatory procedure." The comb's teeth bit into his thick curls before more protest could arise. Clenching his jaw to avoid any noises of dismay to escape through his lips, Brian's eyes wandered across the docks. They halted at the sight of a family whose servants were sure indicators of the first class seal that was stamped on their tickets. _It's not mandatory for **them** ,_ he thought. _I bet they never have to wait in line, and even if they do they can buy their way out of it._ He wouldn't want to trade lives in a billion years, though. A little more money would come in handy, but it felt more genuine to earn it himself than to get it tossed in his lap simply because of a fancy title.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's lovely reading all those positive reactions! Enjoy <3

Crossing the gangway towards the first class entrance, Roger could already foretell that the irritated tension between him and his fiancée would only evolve into a more hostile form during the journey. If they weren't able to spend one week together on a ship without disagreement, then how on Earth were they supposed to establish a loving marriage? She promenaded alongside him, a baby blue parasol resting on her shoulder next to a luxurious hat, and emotionlessly peeked over the railing at the waves beneath her feet as if challenging the very ocean to a duel. 

When he had offered his hand to help her exit the car, Margaret had stared at it like the gesture was the most offensive movement he could possibly have made, knowing he was only being polite because his father had urged him to. God, how he abhorred her! Flawless on the outside, with pearly skin, chocolate hair and gentle facial features, yet so rotten on the inside with vanity. The memory of meeting her for the first time was unfortunately imprinted on the back of his mind: an angelic appearance that'd almost made him reconsider his opinion on arranged marriage, but all was ruined when she parted her lips to give a smug remark on the length of his hair. Roger deliberately hadn't cut it since, purely to get more under her skin as that was the only way he could get at least a little bit of amusement from his engagement. 

He cast a quick nod at the steward by the door, who welcomed the passengers onto the Titanic with a proud smile. Certainly, the vessel was something to be proud of, but Roger, having grown up amongst riches and lavish mansions, was not overly impressed. It was a ship, nothing more: a ferry to a new life that awaited him in America. Married life. A shudder ran across his spine at the mere thought of it.

The interior of the ship was majestic enough to match its grandiose exterior. White walls and tiles radiated the illusion that the entrance hall was even more spacious, and the extravagant patterns of art nouveau added a contemporary flair. Through modern lifts, they were guided to their quarters. Roger had one suite with his father and his younger sister Clare, while the neighbouring one was occupied by Margaret and her parents— unfortunately, their two quarters were directly connected through a shared living area. Smacking the door wide open with more force than necessary, Roger entered the suite along with his relatives, only to realize that its appearance completely mirrored that of the hallway, albeit a bit more old-fashioned: panels of the finest cherry wood, scarlet-draped curtains around the beds, their luggage already placed neatly on the carpet floor. Servants were rushing around, installing several paintings of the Taylors’ personal collection and adding some final ornaments in the shape of vibrant flowers.

The young man took the sight in with a hint of suspicion. They shouldn't be able to afford such luxury. Not according to his father's many sermons on their debts. The fact that he was now standing in a fully furnished suite could only mean that their final coins had been smashed into the assurance that their voyage would be just another facade to conceal the family's financial downfall. It wasn’t the lavishness that he loathed— it was the pretentious nature of his loving father, who first tumbled flat on his face and now sought to ascend again through his son, too self-satisfied to do as little as admitting his own fatal blunders. A glare was fired right into the patriarch's back, and Roger was about to deliver a snarky remark when the door opened brusquely. 

The person he least wished to have around walked in as if she owned the entire place, followed by two maids and the same crew member that'd fulfilled the role of welcoming committee by his lone self. Margaret cast a quick glance around the suite, arriving at the conclusion that it looked precisely the same as hers apart from the personal decorations, and voiced her thoughts to no one in particular. “Did you see those poor beggars of third class enter? I do hope we won't get bothered by any of them.” None seemed to respond physically to the remark, but Roger noticed that one of the maids, who was carefully unpacking an oval mirror, slightly tensed up — if she hadn’t been here in service, third class would have been her only option to travel across the Atlantic. Certainly, the remark had been a harsh kick to her shins, which would leave an aching bruise at best. 

He knew it would be best for all their sakes to leave Margaret’s comment for what it was, but the steward lacked the experience and immediately came to reassure her. “Oh, no miss. The upper decks cannot be accessed from below.” Something in his voice revealed that he wasn't referring to “below” in the spatial sense, but the social one. No way to work oneself up; no way to break the barriers. Margaret exhaled with relief, her attention suddenly engaged by an adorned vase full of amber chrysanthemums, which matched the golden piece of jewellery around her elegant neck. “Thank God— I would hate to have to walk among those folk all day long. Imagine the lice!” Her shrill voice rose with each syllable to the point where Roger was tempted to shush her with a finger to the lips. “Lice can jump rather far, can't they?” he muttered nonchalantly, completely unaware if the reply was factually correct in any way, and added the following upon seeing his fiancée’s wide eyes: “probably as far as two entire decks.” In the silence that followed, a dropped needle would have been more deafening than a gunshot. Clare intervened before a full quarrel was able to burst loose, noticing the obviously upset tinge upon Margaret's facial features. “Oh Rog, will you accompany me outside? I’d love to be there when the ship departs,” she admitted with a beam gracing her youthful face, eagerly clutching to her brother's arm while awaiting his reply in anticipation. Roger suppressed a roll of the eyes for the sake of his sister, whom he hated to disappoint, and gave her an affirmative nod. “Sure, Clare. I could use some fresh air.” Before anyone else grasped the opportunity to tag along, he buttoned his woollen overcoat and opened the door, the freedom of the hallway being a more than welcome shift in atmosphere.

—

Two bunk beds. Four suitcases. Four strangers who'd been fortunate enough to scrape enough money together to afford four individual boarding passes. The cabin was compact, unadorned and barely wide enough for two people to pass each other without backs touching. Brian wouldn't complain— not as long he had basic facilities such as a mattress and running water. It was preferable to sleeping on the streets of London during cold winter nights, which he had endured with great difficulty. Snow would stab his shivering limbs without a grain of mercy as the wind would rob what little warmth he could amass. Fingers would be too frozen for strumming, vocal folds too weak for singing. It was during those moments that Brian was fully convinced that hell was not built upon fire, but ice. The only consolation to his wretched condition would arrive when he glanced upwards and noticed celestial smiles of solace. Those immortal stars, their perpetual presence in combination with the light they omitted, brought hope like no mortal ever could.  
Miserable circumstances made one appreciate little, and right there, on the renowned RMS, Brian felt like a pampered duke. 

The guitarist sat on his bed in relative peace as the three roommates had each left the cabin earlier, presumably to explore the enormous vessel or to get their hands on some fresh ocean air. On his lap lay a leather-bound notebook wide-open. Its old pages had turned a pale shade of yellow, its spine was cracked, and various loose sheets had been added as if they embodied several afterthoughts on the penned down words. The book was an extension of his mind; a fountain of lyrics, ideas, and experiences which value-wise could only be outranked by the wooden instrument that slept next to him on the sheets, still in its casket. A sigh escaped through his chapped lips as he casually browsed through the journal, allowing his eyes to relive all the memories that clung to the paper. Some words were concealed underneath dirt stains or had turned simply unreadable due to their pencil streaks being smudged. Among the randomly scribbled thoughts were several entries brimming with facts of mathematics and physics, which he'd overheard on the streets or read in some crumpled newspaper. A fascination for those sciences had emerged at the moment he'd learnt to read, and they'd never let him go since. There was the urge to explore and explain the inexplicable, to find any reasoning behind the unknown, to alleviate his own ignorance. Fingertips traced the syllables of songs that no one would hear, no one but the composer himself. _Here the ship sailed out into the blue and sunny morn. The sweetest sight ever seen._

A long-haired head emerged from behind the cabin door — it belonged to a fellow named John who'd claimed the bed above his. “Heard we're about to leave any second now. You don't want to miss this,” was assumed with a promising twinkle in his eyes as he nodded upwards, indicating the outside decks and the unique view it would provide. Indeed, one final honk announced the vessel's long-awaited departure. After safely storing his guitar case underneath the bed, Brian followed his roommate through the narrow halls.

When they arrived on the Shelter Deck, many passengers had already gathered around the ship's railings to bid their loved ones farewell, who were situated on the docks below. Brian had no one to say goodbye to, yet joined in waving at the horde of people, suddenly so full of elation that he couldn't help but bare his teeth into a wide grin. This was truly happening. He was at the gates of a brand new tale of which the famous voyage was only the prologue. The heads among the crowd below, with their handkerchiefs and shouts of adieu, were but ants gazing at a gigantic ark that would redeem past lives and deliver its passengers to a continent of unlimited opportunities. Brian felt the vessel beneath his feet stir, and then slowly come to life. Cheers became louder, resembling a tidal wave of noise that appeared to push the ship further into the ocean. A free seagull hovered by. 

That was when his attention was completely absorbed by one particular figure on the upper promenade deck. A young man, staring almost melancholically at the shrinking harbour. Even with the vast distance between them, Brian could notice the air of frustration around the stranger. He thought nothing of it, assuming the guy might simply suffer from early seasickness, and was about to turn away when the other shifted his head slightly, causing their gazes to interlock for the briefest of moments. Brian couldn't blink. Neither could the other man. They were left in a clandestine staring dance, trying to figure out why either of them was unable to look away. Had he been standing any closer, the guitarist would have perceived the vanishing of the deep frown on the stranger's forehead the instant their eyes were introduced to each other. In reality, the moment could only have survived for mere seconds, but amidst the mass of cheering passengers that were solely focused on their ever-shortening connection with the mainland, the brief interval seemed to last an eternity.

“Do you think they're nobles?” John interrupted after following his roommate’s stare at the first class passengers, perceptive enough to see that Brian was glancing at one in particular yet not well enough acquainted with him to provide a teasing remark. “They look posh enough,” he further commented, warming his hands inside the pockets of his tweed jacket. Brian answered absently, now forced to blink and break eye contact with the faraway guy. “I haven't the faintest idea. Not exactly my sort of people.”  
“Because if they were you'd be up there too?”  
A shrug. “Perhaps, yeah.”  
The ends of John's lips turned upwards into an amused smile, not requiring words to convey a clear message: _dream on._ Fair enough, dreams were the only place where such a reality could ever exist. Maybe the moment Brian had shared with the first class stranger had indeed been mere imagination — a mirage of the most treacherous kind — but it certainly had been more than a king looking down upon a peasant.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! I hope I can make it up to you by giving you this chapter of 3000+ words! <3

The vessel was a drifting world of its own, a city that floated upon the waves with such ease that one would suspect it was physically attached to it. An embodiment of grandeur never before seen in such size, the Titanic remained near the coastline for another 24 hours, but when the ship fled the port of Queenstown the following day, it finally met with the open sea.

Brian’s very first night aboard had felt comfortable and refreshing, as if through sleep he had travelled into a vastly different universe where a new life awaited him. The journey was only the first leap and the ship a pole to help him safely across, albeit a rather luxurious pole that appeared to be an end in itself. Energetic and eager, the third-class passenger hurried away his breakfast (oatmeal porridge & milk) in the broad dining saloon. The clattering of knives and forks mingled with elated voices, which shared their expectations of the renown voyage and discussed future plans that were to be executed the moment they set foot on the other continent. Parents exchanged smiles with the knowledge that their children would have plenty to eat every day. Where some people once had to deal with uncertainty about whether they’d have a roof above their heads, was now only the reassuring fact that they had a bed all to themselves. Even those who suffered from seasickness were grinning, for the hopeful and ecstatic atmosphere was contagious for all those who entered the hall.

Brian himself was no exception, with the corners of his lips turned upwards at all times. He was sitting at the far end of a seemingly never-ending table, surrounded by his fellow cabin mates who were engaged in a lively discussion concerning the ship’s velocity.  
“I ‘ave ‘eard zhat zhis ship can go over 26 knots,” claimed a French shoemaker named Basile, his strong accent adding a somewhat musical tone to his voice. The man next to him - Floyd, he called himself - immediately shook his head in disagreement and raised a knowing finger.  
“No, no — the Times said it can only reach 23 knots.”

John took a final sip of his coffee and jumped in. “Do either of you even know how fast one knot is?” he questioned with a raised eyebrow, causing Brian to snicker as the comment left the debating two men utterly speechless. Clearly, they were so full of their own facts they’d hardly pondered about it and believed that merely presenting the statements sufficed for a strong claim upon the breakfast table. The topic instantly shifted to less technical ones: the weather, the food, the hollering of engines that could be heard throughout the F-deck.

Not many minutes afterwards, a guitarist could be spotted on a simple bench on the stern deck, accompanied by his voice, his tattered instrument, and a few sheets of paper. Slender fingers gently strummed in a seemingly improvising manner, but those who paid attention would notice that the man repeated the same patterns and occasionally paused to scribble something with a short pencil. Brian felt completely at ease on the deck, surrounded by tag-playing children and conversing adults, and inspiration invaded his mind in plenty — almost more than it had ever done before. The ocean dragged a distinct mystery along; inexplicable allure that continued to enthral humanity and lure individuals away from the safe shore. Anything was possible on the infinite waters, it seemed. Even the improbable.

After penning down another line, he noticed that John, who previously stood by the white railing, was now glancing along over his shoulder, a cigarette squeezed between two fingers. “‘ _Jump in joy, or sinking in sorrow_ ’..” he read in a mumble. Brian, slightly surprised to discover someone was actually able to decipher his handwriting, turned his head and glanced at the other to discern any reaction on his visage. First, it appeared as though John had no intention of showing his opinion; his knitted brow remained frozen as if he was tasting the lyric and couldn’t figure out whether he enjoyed the flavour. All of a sudden, his facial muscles relaxed and a careful smile materialized.  
“Love the little alliteration there,” he complimented, settling on the unoccupied half of the bench.  
“Thank you. It adds extra flair to it, don’t you think? Simple yet melodious.”  
“Also makes it easier for folks to sing along,” John observed.  
“Hmm,” Brian hummed, shaking his head, “I’m not sure yet if this one will be for performance. The words are rather personal. Too precious to be just tossed on the street.”  
“You only sing in the streets?”  
A chuckle fled the writer’s lips and his hands released the instrument, forcing it to hang solely around his neck. His eyebrows raised as he nodded multiple times, indicating the entirety of the vessel beneath their feet. “And on ships, apparently. I doubt I could impress any wealthy benefactors here though.”  
The guitar was no instrument to be placed among the elite which was largely conservative in manner and taste. Violins, cellos and pianos were preferred. Besides, none of the garments in Brian’s travelling bag would be posh enough to blend in with a first-class audience. No matter how much he washed or ironed, scrubbed or stitched, he’d always portray the role of beggar next to spotless bow-ties. And that was _fine_ — the guitarist preferred playing in desolate alleys over being mocked by hypocrite folks who raised their noses at each and every smudge.

Another few chords escaped from the strings into the Atlantic air. They pranced among the passengers without prejudice, not paying any attention to the sign that read “3rd CLASS PASSENGERS ARE NOT ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT”. They galloped between the four funnels of the ship as if they owned the entire vessel. Even musical notes could not enjoy full liberty, though, as they eventually were swallowed by the salty waves below.

Brian paused to enjoy the sight around him. A girl with a straw hat ran by, chasing a leather ball. A father lifted his giggling infant son upon his shoulders. A young couple shared a hurried kiss. _How long could pure joy last?_  
Paws trotted across the floorboards of the deck, occasionally halting by an iron post or mast. Brian’s face lit up at the sight of the dogs and he reached out his hand for a setter, whistling an affable greeting to the canine. All he received was an austere look from the crew member that was holding the dog’s line and quickly yanked the pet past the guitarist.  
“No wonder they call this the poop deck. We’re getting the first class dumps,” John commented, partly joking, partly serious in his annoyance. It was indeed humiliating; all they received from the aristocracy were their pets’ feces. Brian, gazing after the animals with a sigh, still couldn’t help but correct him.  
“Actually, “poop” refers to the Latin term for “stern” and—” An uninterested glare from John forced him to cease his speech.

—

Meanwhile, another young man was screaming without uttering a single sound, knowing very well that no one would come to his rescue even if they could hear the distress call. There were not enough decks to flee to, not enough private parlours to hide in. Stares would always be following him, watching his every action, recording any hearsay that did so much as mention his tiny toe. No gossip concerning Roger Meddows Taylor was permitted to reach their social circle, for the entire family’s sake rested upon the man’s shoulders and the merest scandalous rumour could be sufficient to ruin his reputation. It was a tough task, especially since the subject in question refused to be tamed. Hair reaching over the shoulders was one thing, sheer disobedience another.

Lunch, however, he dutifully attended — albeit with a tinge of protest, visible in the way his blonde locks hung freely without the usual constraint of a ribbon. Enough pride and civility remained for Roger to escort his fiancée towards the table in the Verandah Cafe. Arm in arm, the pair almost radiated an air of mutual respect, if not amity. _Almost_ , for even a blind man could see how they avoided eye contact.

The act, thankfully, did not have to be maintained for the entirety of the meal, for there were several chairs between the two. Roger could only hope that would ensure minimal interaction, but it instantly proved to be a fruitless prayer: altogether, there were eight occupied seats surrounding the small tables, meaning he was bound to be involved in a conversation with someone. _Let it not be Margaret, nor her parents. Let it not be his father_. Clare would be preferable, but she was settled at the far end and thus an improbable collocutor. Two men remained, both of whom Roger had never met let alone spoken to. One of them had taken the chair on his left. A titleless chap about his age and height, though that was where the physical similarities ended— raven-black hair rested upon proud shoulders, and darker eyebrows wore a sharp contrast to kind, shimmering eyes. According to Mr Taylor, the eccentric fellow had inherited a large sum of money from a distant relative, labelling him as _new money_ , which left behind a rather stigmatized trail amongst the aristocracy. Ironically, Roger instantly liked him. The man arrived shortly after the rest did, dressed in a scarlet waistcoat, and after reluctantly introducing himself with his full name, insisted that everyone would call him Freddie.

The second unfamiliar face at the table was pompous and graced with a thick imperial moustache — it belonged to none other than Bruce Ismay, director of the White Star Line. Naturally, he discussed the Titanic as if he designed and built the entire vessel with his bare hands, hubris dripping from every syllable he uttered. Roger didn’t mind him all that much. If he were standing in the man’s shoes, partly responsible for the creation of such a colossal ship, he’d undoubtedly brag about it too.

“Needless to say, I included several recreational areas to ensure maximum comfort,” Ismay assured with a smile, taking a quick sip from his lager. “The gymnasium, for example, is equipped with the latest athletic machinery.”  
Some were genuinely impressed and nodded, turning to the person next to them to exchange opinions. Unfortunately, Mr Taylor, who sat at the opposite side of the table, raised a glass at his son. “That sounds rather promising, Roger. You can finally grow muscles on yourself.”  
A witty reply would have fled Roger’s lips at that very moment if it hadn’t been for the fork with scrambled egg that had just entered his mouth. Instead, he faked a smirk while chewing, only mentally scolding his father. The words had not been intended to convey a mocking undertone, and yet they did. It was no secret within the family that the patriarch endeavoured to make an ideal gentleman out of his eldest, and he believed the first step was a change in appearance. Thew. Broad shoulders. A short, professional haircut. That Roger, particularly during his younger years, was often mistaken for a girl did not foster the realization of his father’s narrow idea of masculinity.

Trying to erase the remark from his head, Roger slightly leaned forward and adjusted the dark blue double-breasted waistcoat he was wearing with a quick tug. Before anyone could interfere, he tossed a quick question upon the table— oil to fuel the director’s vanity a bit more.  
“Who was it that thought of the name “Titanic”?”  
Ismay instantly took the bait. “Why, I did myself!” the man exclaimed as if that had been obvious. “I wanted to convey sheer size and size means stability, luxury, and above all, strength.”

Freddie, who’d remained rather quiet, suddenly spoke up. He swallowed and pointed his fork in the direction of Ismay, trying to capture his full attention. “Do you know of Dr Freud, Bruce? His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you.”  
Roger nearly choked on his drink. Laughter erupted from his lungs like a cloud of breath suppressed for too long. The sudden burst was only amplified by the complete silence among the other participants of the lunch. He didn’t notice their stares until after he’d properly wiped the drops of orange juice off his mouth with a napkin. Everyone but Ismay himself seemed to know what Freddie’s comment had meant, but none dared to discuss it aloud. Too vulgar for formal conversation. Roger, however, couldn’t let the brilliant remark be extinguished.  
“I think so too. God knows how much a legendary ship such as Titanic could compensate.”  
He exchanged a knowing look with his neighbour, who had trouble subduing a laugh himself. Clare giggled against her napkin. The other passengers did not share the amusement. Mr James and Mrs Ethel Astor pretended to be suddenly very interested in their leek soup. Margaret’s cheeks were flushed in embarrassment. Mr Taylor’s grip around his crystal glass was so tight one might expect the thing to burst into a thousand shards. Bruce Ismay was, comically enough, very confused. “I have not heard of him. Is this Freud person some sort of businessman?” he asked with a frown, but all he received was a quiet continuation of the meal.

The remainder of the day was no more liberating than the lunch had been. Roger tried to cling onto the solitude of his quarters, eternally grateful for the grand piano he’d requested. The music brought some solace and peace someone could see to the room as the ocean drifting past in the square windows. Fingers hovered from key to key, extemporising melancholy and dramatic pieces. The composer’s eyes were shut so no sight would distract him from the enchanting notes and the dawning of the ship below his stool. Away from the present, miles departed from reality — until the door would open, and someone would enter, and the music would prove to be only temporary morphine.

Later on, the ship glided into the evening like a beacon upon the waves, swallowed by the water that had turned black in the pale moonlight. The slightly ominous ocean air flew past the umpteen circular windows. Passengers behind the indestructible outer bulkheads were fully focused on dinner, imbibing bliss and ignorance of the disaster that would occur in mere days.

One first-class passenger was spared the bliss and had trouble subduing his ever-present discomfort. Compared to the brief luncheon, the ten-course supper was even more likely to become a hotbed for gossip. Roger loathed the pretentious nature of the conversations that were held and the judging stares that were exchanged. Money this, riches that. Whether he’d already enjoyed a dip in the swimming pool on the middle deck. _We’re in a gigantic swimming pool already_ , _he thought, only it is salt water we're floating in._ Taking another sip of his third (fourth?) glass of cognac, Roger stared deeply into the alcoholic liquid, and a sudden urge to drown in it came along. _If only it were deep enough,_ his intoxicated mind wandered.

The only person who managed to make the meal somewhat durable was Freddie, who now and then shared amusing anecdotes with the entire table. After a while, however, topics shifted, and other people participated, and Roger increasingly craved to be somewhere else. Somewhere enjoyable; somewhere unrestricted. No matter how pressuring his wishes, they wouldn't be heard. There would always be the shadow of his last name, he realized. Always the chain around his ankle, no matter how many expensive trousers covered it. Gloomy ideas filled his thoughts through the booze that entered his body, and by the time the dessert was placed before him, Roger had turned into a slave to the glass.

“Apparently, all passengers from third class have to share two bathtubs. How horrendous! But then again, I assume that is what they're used to.” Margaret's voice managed to puncture his numb ears, where a pounding beep originated. Had she really spoken? Or had it only been his imagination, aided by the alcohol? Either way, a reply lay on the tip of his sharp tongue.  
“ — and 'cos that's what they're used to they don't deserve any better?”

His fiancée was visibly surprised that he dared to share his thoughts and hesitatingly adjusted her pearl earring with a gloved hand.  
“They’re an entirely different brand of people, Roger. You cannot simply provide them with luxury. Give them a finger and they will take the entire hand!” Margaret reminded. Though his view be blurred, he noticed that a few people nodded in unison, and it made him sick to the stomach. Louder than intended, Roger disrupted the quiet atmosphere in the dining hall, even overshadowing “On the Beautiful Blue Danube”, which the band near the entrance was obediently performing. “At least they are not forced to listen to your gibberish all the time. I'd certainly consider _that_ a luxury.”  
“Roger! Apologize at once!” Mr Taylor snapped back, lowering his cutlery on the table in pure shock. Margaret's father seemed equally perplexed and added more salt to the wound. “Has he always acted like such a child, Mr Taylor? I can hardly take the boy serious.”  
Roger's blood was boiling and his fists were clenched to the point where his skin around his knuckles turned white.  
“I'm sitting at the very same table as you, Mr Astor. I can hear every word you say, no matter how insulting.”  
“And yet you fail to realize how insulting and hurtful your own comment was toward my daughter!”  
“On the contrary!” It was almost a shout, albeit a slurred one. “I _meant_ for it t’ be insulting.”  
The patriarch of the Taylor family made one final attempt to resolve the commotion without drawing too much attention to their table and whispered in a hiss: “Roger Meddows Taylor, start acting like the adult you are. Can't you see you're making a scene?”  
A chair was shoved backwards. Roger’s unstable legs rose, making him totter slightly. A dangerous combination of drunkenness and fury could be seen in his half-open eyes. When he spoke, the words of pardon were clearly directed at Freddie, and Freddie only.  
“Forgive me, I'm suffocating here,” he spat out, tossing his napkin in the untouched Waldorf pudding on his plate, and hurried out of the dining saloon in an as linear manner as his feet could manage. Shouts from behind him could not pierce through his dulled senses— they were but voices hollering in the distance, seeking to drag him right back to his chair. When Roger finally reached the exit - a beautifully decorated glass door of which the ornaments seemed to dance before his eyes - a waiter happened to pass by with a wine bottle atop his tray. Without hesitation, Roger grabbed the bottle by the neck and dragged it along as he made his way out; a winner’s trophy? Or a consolation prize?


End file.
